


Singing The Right Song (With You)

by crispdarkblue



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I just wanted to write cute starbucks things, M/M, Modern AU, New York City, Texting, art school Steve, side Clintasha, text the wrong number
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispdarkblue/pseuds/crispdarkblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes accidentally texted the wrong number and now there's an artist living in his phone contacts, and he can't bring himself to leave the too-brave, insanely sarcastic kid alone.<br/>Steve Rogers finds himself living between strong cups of coffee from the restaurant he works at, and texts from the charming stranger who makes Brooklyn a little less harsh.<br/>Natasha Romanov is just trying to get by, it only complicates things if Steve wants to come to her for relationship advice. In the mean time, she really wishes Clint would stop bringing his dog to work and pretending he can live off pizza and coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Bucky Barnes Makes A Mistake That's Actually Kind Of Okay

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of this AU, Steve developed a respiratory disease about a year before this fic takes place that would be curable if he had the money for a trip to the hospital (since a super-serum wouldn't really make sense in this context). The title is taken from the soundtrack to the movie Downtown Express and a link to the songs will be added soon. Kind criticism and offers to beta are gladly welcomed.

**June 17**

(sent 5:46pm)

Are we on for a movie later?

 

(sent 5:49pm)

_Is this Peggy? I thought you had to study for those honors exams this week?_

 

(sent 5:50pm)

Oh sorry I think I was given the wrong number. But if a girls in an honors class and would rather study all week then go to a movie, I'm guessing you didn't have a chance

 

(sent 5:53pm)

_I definitely had a chance you jerk, Peggy and I have gone on dates before._

(sent 5:54pm)

_Sorry, that came across a lot more rude than I wanted._

 

(sent 5:58pm)

Nah, I just thought it was funny, I hope you get that date next week

 

(sent 5:59pm)

_Thanks, I think. Who had you been trying to text anyway?_

 

(sent 6:01pm)

Nobody important, picked up a wrong number last night

(sent 6:02pm)

It's Bucky by the way

(sent 6:18pm)

Did I creep you out? I know people usually don't keep talking to wrong numbers, I can't help talking a lot I guess

 

(sent 7:41pm)

_Oh no, I don't mind talking to you, I was asleep is all. I'm Steve._

 

(sent 7:56pm)

You were sleeping. You're not a 90 year old man are you? Oh shit, are you in a different time zone? I can't pay for long-distance, it's 8pm where I'm at

 

(sent 7:58pm)

_I'm in the same time zone, I'm just sick. And I'm not an old man either, I'm pretty sure cell phones are lost on fossils._

 

(sent 7:59pm)

Good point. Sorry you're sick

 

(sent 8:03pm)

_I usually am. I had to work today so that wasn't really helping_

 

(sent 8:05pm)

Aw man, you couldn't take the day off?

 

(sent 8:06pm)

_I think we're in the same boat, I can't really afford it._

 

(sent 8:08pm)

Hey the city's a fickle dame, I understand

 

(sent 8:10pm)

_You don't even know if I live in a city. Also "dame"? That's a little…_

 

(sent 8:12pm)

Charming?

 

(sent 8:13pm)

_I was going to say kind of antiquated and disrespectful, but I'm sure you could be charming._

 

(sent 8:16pm)

Could be? Listen here ya punk, I'm pretty darn charming. Like that one song about the charming man from the 80s

 

(sent 8:23pm)

_Are you trying to describe "This Charming Man" by The Smiths?_

 

(sent 8:23pm)

So you're a music man?

 

(sent 8:25pm)

_Artist/any job I find man. You realize that song is about a rich, charismatic guy charming a younger, common man who he can never be with, right?_

 

(sent 8:29pm)

So are you just not a good artist or something? How come you have to work so much?

 

(sent 8:31pm)

_I'm a student with health complications. Like you said, the city's a fickle dame._

(sent 8:32pm)

 _I'm a great artist by the way._ [JPG. FILE ATTACHED]

 

(sent 8:37pm)

No lie, your health must be pretty bad if that's not paying tuition

 

(sent 8:38pm)

_Thanks. Peggy's calling. Good talking to you stranger._

 

**June 18**

(sent 3:44am)

Okay steve what kind of lame name is that anyway 

(sent 3:44am)

Lame name that rhymes

(sent 3:45am)

I forgot what else i was going to say

 

 

(sent 3:51am)

_Bucky? Are you drunk or something?_

 

(sent 5:37am)

Sorry for texting. I had a few last night. Won't text again

 

(sent 6:18am)

_You don't have to be sorry. And you don't have to stop texting._

 

(sent 8:25pm)

Thanks Steve. Sorry for making fun of your name btw. How was your day, punk?

 

(sent 8:29pm)

_You know, just another long work day and some classes. How was yours._

 

(sent 8:30pm)

About the same honestly. No classes though, college wasn't gonna work out for me. What do you do for a living?

 

(sent 8:32pm)

_You're college age? I work at a restaurant the neighbors nicknamed Shield, it's nice enough for the hours I put in._

 

(sent 8:33pm)

Yeah, I found a job down at the docks a few years back and never left

(sent 8:34pm)

Wait, are you talking about the 40s throwback place that serves really awful coffee?

 

(sent 8:34pm)

_Do you really like the harbor that much?_

(sent 8:35pm)

_Hang on, you know the place I work?_

 

(sent 8:36pm)

Are you kidding? I stop by for breakfast on holidays, it's kind of out of my way, but it's my favorite

 

(sent 8:39pm)

_I have class in the mornings so we probably never met, this is kind of unreal._

 

(sent 8:42pm)

Tell me about it, I had no clue nice people worked there. That redheaded bird and her boyfriend are brutal

 

(sent 8:43pm)

_You can't handle a little teasing from Clint and Nat? Man, you're not as tough as you make yourself out to be._

 

(sent 8:44pm)

They made fun of my hair Steve

 

(sent 8:46pm)

_Aw they're not that bad, I only got my job because of them._

 

(sent 8:47pm)

Those harpies helped you!?

 

(sent 8:52pm)

_Yeah, it's kind of a long story. Some guy had been beating on a lady in the street and I got myself into a fight with him. Nat ended up dislocating his shoulder and giving him a real bruiser. I will never forget what she called that._

 

(sent 8:53pm)

What did she call it?

 

(sent 8:53pm)

_"Cognitive recalibration. " She hit him really hard in the head._

 

(sent 8:55pm)

Jesus, that's funny. But wow Steve, do you get into a lot of fights for the sake of honor?

 

(sent 8:56pm)

_I guess you could say that. The guy deserved it, she wasn't exactly very willing to fight him off._

 

(sent 8:57pm)

Why’s that?

 

(sent 8:58pm)

_They had matching rings._

 

(sent 9:02pm)

Jeez that’s messed up. So what, you defend the abused and the less fortunate because it’s fun?

 

(sent 9:04pm)

_I don’t like bullies._

 

(sent 9:05pm)

You’re like a real life super hero, you make me feel so inadequate

 

(sent 9:08pm)

_You’ll live, I promise._

 

(sent 9:09pm)

Says you, Steveman

(sent 9:08pm)

Thug-puncher

(sent 9:10pm)

Captain Chivalry

(sent 9:14pm)

Come on, throw me a bone here Fist Of Justice

 

(sent 9:22pm)

_Sorry I have work, I like captain chivalry the best, but I promise I’m not really all you think I am._

 

(sent 9:23pm)

Yeah right Cap

 

**June 19**

(sent 10:14am)

_I was reading through those texts from last night, I can’t believe I agreed to let you call me Captain Chivalry._

 

(sent 10:16am)

What, chivalry don’t feel right to you?

 

(sent 10:17am)

_*Doesn’t* Nah, I’m just a dumb kid from Brooklyn._

 

(sent 10:18am)

Whatever. Don’t you have school Steve from Brooklyn?

 

(sent 10:21am)

_I have a break between classes._

 

(sent 10:23am)

And the stranger that lives in your phone is the first person you text?

 

(sent 10:24am)

_You’re easy to talk to. Don’t you have work?_

 

(sent 10:24am)

Day off, I’m still laying in bed and it is amazing

 

(sent 10:26am)

_Oh man, wish I was there_

 

(sent 10:27am)

In my bed? Wow Steve, buy a guy a drink first

 

(sent 10:29am)

_Oh my gosh, no that’s really not what I meant_

(sent 10:29am)

_Peggy’s walking over here, I panicked and didn’t proofread_

(sent 10:30am)

_Sorry bye_

 

(sent 10:30am)

I think that's called a freudian slip, but I knew what you meant, good luck with your gal


	2. In Which Steve Is Under Pressure And Natasha Takes On Responsibilities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's texts- italics  
> Bucky's texts- regular  
> Natasha's texts- bold
> 
> second chapter in two days frick yeah

**June 21**

(sent 11:26pm)

I kinda want to meet you

****  


**June 22**

(sent 3:49am)

_Okay._

* * *

Pour the coffee, serve the eggs, identify every patron carrying a weapon. One with a knife, one with a gun, one with a heavy hand clenched around his cell-phone. Natasha Romanov knew how her days went; work hard, defend yourself, don’t weep over the past.

“Hey Nat, pancakes and veggie-bacon!”

“Got it Clint, I have eyes.” Life went on and she knew it wasn’t about to stop for her.

Go to work, ride the train, meditate on the day. No one died, no one called, and Clint told her to watch “Dog Cops”. Everything was fine. The morning shift at the Shield wasn’t taxing, it paid her bills and made her safe. She was safe.

Heavy-hand with cell-phone ordered coffee and flashed her a grin. He ran a hand through waves of short chestnut hair, alternately glancing at his phone and running a thumb along the grimy edge of the bar. The man pondered heavily over the menu in front of him and licked his shell pink lips. Natasha watched. She poured orange juice and bused tables and she watched. He wasn’t a regular, Clint would know if he had been through before, but he didn’t have the look of someone who spent a lot of time doing anything but working, going by the state of his mud-caked shoes and rough hands.

Take the orders, take the tips, watch out for the idiot cook. Moscow, Budapest, New York. Natasha knew threats. The man with excited eyes and nervous lines around his mouth was not a threat. She watched his reflection in the large windows that served as a large portion of two walls that formed the Shield diner. There was her face, sharp and questioning, red curls framing her face. She like the red against her skin, it felt like armor. There was his back, hunched defensively over the bar. There was the light of his phone as he checked it a fourth time. Natasha slipped behind the bar to grind more coffee, the soft sound of her Dr Martens hitting the floor was rhythmic, falling amid the sound of Clint breaking eggs and flipping pancakes in the kitchen. The man spoke,

“Um, hey, excuse me doll, is Steve here right now?”

“No, he works the late shift, who are you?”

“A friend.” She raised an eyebrow, prompting a better answer, “I’m Bucky.”

“That doesn’t mean a whole lot to me, but I’ll tell him you said hi.”

“Thanks.” The man nodded and drained his porcelain mug. Natasha studied him another moment, then let her sharp lips form words,

“Your hair’s parted crooked, _doll_.”

* * *

(sent 2:59pm)

**Hey Steve, your boyfriend came looking for you at the restaurant today**

(sent 3:02pm)

_I don’t have a boyfriend Nat._

(sent 3:03pm)

**He said his name was Bucky, you know him?**

(sent 3:04pm)

_Yeah, we’re friends I think._

__

(sent 3:07pm)

**You think?**

(sent 3:09pm)

_He accidentally texted me because someone had given him the wrong number, and we talk a lot now._

(sent 3:10pm)

**His haircut is pretty bad.**

(sent 3:10pm)

**Hang on, Clint wants to describe it to you.**

(sent 3:12pm)

_Oh no._

__

(sent 3:13pm)

**His hair looked like a really douchey Hollister model threw up on his head. He looked like a gangster from the 40s who was going to step out of a dark alley and snap rhythmically at me.**

(sent 3:15pm)

_I’m sure it wasn’t that bad._

****  


(sent 3:17pm)

**It really was Steve, he exudes trying too hard.**

(sent 3:18pm)

_Come on, he’s... charming!_

__

(sent 3:20pm)

**Like the Smiths song?**

(sent 3:20pm)

_Why is everyone obsessed with that song?_

(sent 3:21pm)

**It’s a good song.**

(sent 3:22pm)

**Clint disagrees.**

(sent 3:24pm)

**How’s that cold coming along?**

(sent 3:27pm)

_Worse. I’ve been trying to save up for a hospital trip, but it’s just not going to happen._

__

(sent 3:29pm)

**Do you have your inhaler at least?**

(sent 3:30pm)

_Empty. I don’t really want to have this conversation Nat._

(sent 3:32pm)

**Call your charming man, he was really nervous about seeing you.**

* * *

****  


(sent 4:15pm)

_I heard you came into the restaurant today._

(sent 5:07pm)

Yeah, the redhead was mean to me again

(sent 5:12pm)

_Did you call her dame?_

__

(sent 5:15pm)

Doll

(sent 5:16pm)

_Just respect her, a little human decency won’t kill you._

(sent 5:17pm)

Jeez Steve, you’re snippy today

(sent 5:21pm)

_Peggy broke up with me._

(sent 5:23pm)

Oh wow, I’m really sorry man. Did she say why?

(sent 5:24pm)

_She’s from England and wants to work for the government, can’t really do much in America._

(sent 5:26pm)

Couldn’t go with her or did she just not want to carry on?

(sent 5:29pm)

_We agreed that long distance wouldn’t work. She’s important to me, but I feel like the sickly kid from America would only slow her down, and she’s going places fast._

(sent 5:30pm)

Wow Captain Chivalry, you’ve outdone yourself. Sorry it didn’t work with her.

(sent 5:32pm)

_That’s okay, I can start saving for medicine again, now that we’re not going halves on dates anymore._

(sent 5:33pm)

Oh yeah, how is your cold?

(sent 5:37pm)

_Not better._

(sent 5:39pm)

Sorry Steve, I wish I could help.

(sent 5:40pm)

_Nah, I don’t think you really could, thanks anyway._

(sent 5:42pm)

Aw Steve, you don’t have to do this alone, don’t you have a roommate or something?

(sent 5:58pm)

Sorry I brought it up

(sent 6:20pm)

Do you still want to meet me too, or are you mad?

(sent 11:57pm)

I didn’t mean to step on your toes

(sent 11:59pm)

You’re at work

(sent 11:59pm)

Sorry

 

* * *

 

**June 22**

(sent 7:16am)

_Hey Nat, can I come over later, they turned my heat off. I could also do with some advice._

__

(sent 8:32am)

**Yeah, bring your stuff. We’ll go over to Clint’s and find you some Nyquil or whatever you take.**

(sent 10:56am)

_Thanks, I’ll do a commission for you. Another Moscow landscape?_

(sent 12:02pm)

**You don’t owe me Steve, I’m just trying to do some good.**


	3. In Which Bucky Meets Steve And Doesn't Know It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A longer, more narrative chapter that runs through a day in Steve's life. The boys meet, but don't really know it; Natasha looks out for Steve; and a real meeting is arranged.  
> Steve's texts- italic  
> Bucky's texts- plain  
> Natasha's texts- bold

**June 22**

“I can do this all day buddy-” a staccato smack sounded through the narrow alley. A hulking wall of a man rubbed his knuckles thoughtfully. Crouched in his shadow was a tall, lean blonde, wheezing through a coughing fit and attempting to stagger to his feet. “You really shouldn’t have been making those comments, it’s going to come back to you someday.”  
The thin blonde was promptly kicked in the teeth, silencing any further comments.

 

As Steve Rogers lay on the ground, attempting to form words around his swollen lip and staring at the worn, off-brand tennis shoes that had connected with his face moments before, he could already hear Natasha reprimanding him. No, that wasn’t Natasha, that was a man. A man with a smooth voice and a hard hit. Steve could hear the larger man who had insisted that he and Steve “step outside a moment” stumbling out of the side street. Now that voice that rang like a bell was bouncing around his head,

“You alright there?” Steve slid his gaze upward to see a hand stretched out to him by a man about his age, dark hair pushed away from his soft, lined face, friendly smirk greeting him. The lean blonde pushed himself upright and swung one bony, ink-stained hand into the rough palm offered to him.

“I had him on the ropes,” Steve mumbled weakly, stuttering off into another coughing fit, feeling hot, heavy blood hit the back of his throat. The other man propped the smaller up against his own body, placing a comforting hand between Steve’s shoulder blades,

“I know ya did. Is the laptop bag yours?” The blonde nodded, extending his hand for the bag that had been retrieved from the piss-soaked alley,

“Thanks.”

“Where were you headed, anyway? You start that fight on purpose?”

“No, course I didn't, that guy was making rude comments about a military officer at the corner store.” The stranger chuckled and lightly thumped Steve on the back as they awkwardly hobbled to the main street,

“You’re nuts. I seem to be meeting a lot of people like that lately.” Swiping his other hand through his chestnut locks, the man let his fingers curl into the fabric of Steve’s loose blue and white hoodie. “I’m going to the diner just down the way, we’ll get you some help.” The lean blonde nodded and raised a sleeve to his lips to staunch the blood flow.

“I’m going to the station about a block from there, I can make it the rest of the way,” he said heavily through the fabric of his sleeve.

“Jeez kid, you really don’t know how to accept help. I’m not gonna argue with ya, I wish you luck, punk.”

 

The odd pair moved at strange, fluctuating paces towards the Shield diner at the end of the street where the dark haired stranger turned to Steve. “Do you have a pen?”  
The blonde nodded and blindly rummaged through the bag slung across his thin shoulders, handing a ballpoint to the other man. “It would greatly improve my conscience if I had a way to know that you didn't die,” he explained, marking sharp, loosely spaced numbers on the edge of Steve’s palm. With that, he nodded sharply at Steve and flashed a charming grin, straightened his old, olive green coat and ducked into the diner. Steve grinned to himself and slouched off towards the station, curling his fingers defensively around the numbers.

 

* * *

 

“Huh, Steve. You look like shit, come in.”

“Thanks Clint, where’s Nat?” An apathetic looking man with cropped blonde hair and stubble rubbed the back of his,

“She’s up on the roof. I’m gonna put on a pot of coffee, she buys the fancy French stuff you like.” Steve rolled his shining blue eyes and shrugged out of his bloodstained jacket, pacing across the tiny, largely brick studio apartment Natasha lived in, up to the door that led to the roof.

 

From atop the building, Steve could see his own neighborhood, nestled among soft golden light on the horizon. The thick night air choked him and the sound of his coughing drew attention from a woman curled against the wall of the next building, dangerously close to the edge of the roof. She tilted her head smoothly and regarded Steve with sharp, gleaming brown eyes.

“Hey, come sit,” she gestured lightly to the empty space beside her, neat curls swaying with her. “Have you talked to Peggy?” she asked lightly, pulling her legs up to her body.

“Nah, she’s been busy packing and all, y’know.” Natasha nodded and focused her gaze in the direction of Times Square.

“It sounds like pneumonia.”

“I probably shouldn't ask why you know that.”

“If you don’t get someone to take care of you, I’ll go with you to the hospital.”

“I don’t have money for the hospital Nat.”

“I didn't say I would dump your unconscious body in the ER, Steve. Please, I have some standards.” A soft laugh from Steve echoed across the rooftop, ringing out into the deep blue twilight.

“Some guy pulled me out of a fight today.”

“Good, I have too busy a schedule.” The redhead turned to give Steve a small, friendly smile that was barely visible in the near darkness of the rooftop.

“He made me promise to call him when I got home, I guess I should probably do that.”

“Yeah, you should.”

 

There was a moment of quiet as Steve punched in the numbers on the keypad of his phone, the soft clicking followed by ringing and Steve’s nervous gulps of breath. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Then it was interrupted by a pre recorded message  
“Hey, you’ve reached James Barnes, leave your name, number, and whatever.” It was the same smooth voice, heavy with the accent of someone who had lived in the city their whole life. It was almost comforting to Steve, hearing that voice lazily instructing him to react to the tonal beep that followed.

“Um hi, this is recording, right? Yeah, okay, hi, it’s the guy you pulled out of that fight earlier. You told me to call when I got home, so yeah, thanks again, bye.” Steve hit the small red button on the burner phone gifted to him by Natasha, and watched the call ended screen appear and vanish. “The number looks really familiar.”

“Maybe he’s helped you in one of your vigilante escapades before?” the woman at Steve’s side replied.

“No, something more recent… I’d remember someone like him.” Natasha rolled her eyes and rose to her feet, offering a hand to her companion,

“You can play detective later, let’s go eat, I would be a bad friend if I let you continue to be this malnourished.” Steve muttered heavy ‘sorry’s and clutched self-consciously at the button-down shirt hanging off his frame as he followed her to the door.

 

* * *

 

(sent 6:47pm)

Did you call me a half hour ago?

 

(sent 6:50pm)  
 _Not that I know of, I’ll check my call log._

(sent 6:53pm)  
 _Did you pull a skinny guy out of a fight today?_

 

(sent 6:53pm)  
No fuckin way

(sent 6:54pm)  
That was you?

(sent 6:54pm)  
I got your message by the way. Does this mean you’re not mad at me? Because my worry was justified, you look half-dead

(sent 6:57pm)  
Oh jeez I mean half dead in a good way, you would look great if you had some meat on your bones

(sent 6:59pm)  
Not that you don’t look good now, I was still struck by your jawline and crazy shoulder waist ratio

 

(sent 7:02pm)  
 _Bucky?_

 

(sent 7:03pm)  
Yeah?

(sent 7:03pm)  
I’ll shut up now

 

(sent 7:04pm)  
 _I liked your hair._

 

* * *

 

“Steve, could you try to be less smitten with your phone, I’m trying to eat over here.”

“Shut up Clint, eat your pizza,” Natasha followed this up by flicked the whining blonde with one sharp fingernail, maintaining eye contact as he scowled at her, before complacently slumping against her shoulder. Steve glanced over at the duo on Natasha’s threadbare, floral-print sofa, his slight grin broadening. He looked up at the ceiling above the soft leather loveseat where he sat, the string of carnival lights Natasha had strung along the edge of the studio had enveloped the flat in a warm glow that made Steve feel wonderfully at home. He listened to Clint and Nat argue over who could knock over a beer bottle resting on the kitchen bar first and held his phone close to his chest, startling slightly at every phantom vibrate. The pressure on his chest made his breath come out in soft wheezes, filling his ears with the nearly therapeutic steady noise. Steve knew he had a long shift ahead of him, opting to close his eyes for a moment in preparation.

 

When he woke, there was a post-it note stuck to his forehead in Natasha’s slanted cursive.

**Steve, went to Clint’s place to watch a movie, take the cough syrup- hospital was not an empty threat. Lock up when you go, key is on the counter**   
**-N. R.**

Steve looked up towards the clock mounted on the wall above the door, he had slept for almost two hours and felt slightly more refreshed. On the kitchen bar was the bottle of cough syrup Natasha had left, next to it was his hoodie, blood stains scrubbed clean- that was Clint’s work. Stretching as he rose, Steve felt better fed and rested than he had been in weeks. He let out a short, unproductive cough as he gathered his things and prepared himself for the walk to the subway station.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey Steve, I locked up the kitchen, Maria will trade off with you up front.”

“Thanks Pep, have a nice night.” The sharp-witted blonde cook, Pepper, gave him a quick nod and smile as they passed each other in the doorway of the Shield diner. She had been working there before Steve and had treated him fairly for as long as he could remember. Her kindness, he quickly learned, did not mean she was passive. She had been keeping the books for the restaurant’s frivolous owner for years, and had learned how to deal with late night altercations better than any other employee. Steve respected her, and their friendship had brought him closer to the other employees, like Maria Hill, who was gathering her things from the lock-up. She gave Steve a quick wave and paced out the door behind him, short black hair bobbing as she hurried industriously to the streets.

 

* * *

 

(sent 7:42pm)

I can’t believe I waited in shield for 45 minutes after I met you on the street

 

(sent 11:03pm)  
 _I work the late shift, 10 until 4._

 

(sent 11:12pm)  
Steve, are you texting at work? Shame

 

(sent 11:13pm)  
 _It’s empty right now, go to bed Buck._

 

(sent 11:15pm)  
But Steve, you need company

(sent 11:22pm)  
If you ignore me, god help us, I will come down there and loiter

(sent 11:29pm)  
You’ve done it, I will take up space at the bar and talk loudly and avoid buying anything

 

(sent 11:34pm)  
 _I was helping customers, don’t come down here, you’ll get stabbed on the way._

 

(sent 11:36pm)  
I have a super hero best friend, you’ll find my cold body and save me

 

(sent 11:37pm)  
 _Please Bucky?_

 

(sent 11:39pm)  
Fine. I’m visiting tomorrow though.

 

(sent 11:42pm)  
 _I’d like that, goodnight James._


	4. In Which Steve Draws And Bucky Drinks A Lot Of Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky didn't know that sitting in a diner with the artist he accidentally texted last week would bring him so much happiness; he might have tried it earlier.  
> Steve knows Bucky is right about finding someone to help him, he just doesn't know where to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though Steve and Bucky are meeting, I'd like to continue with the dialogue heavy format. So true to my own lazy form, this is almost entirely quotes.  
> Special thanks to the gorgeous and unfathomably helpful missfrost

**June 23**

(sent 4:23am)  
 _I’m ridiculously excited to meet you for real later._

 

(sent 5:08am)  
Same. Did you go to bed at 4 this morning? No wonder you’re sick, you work yourself too hard Steve

 

(sent 6:47am)  
 _It’s only because I have to. I’ll probably take a day off next week to finish a few pieces for my portfolio._

 

(sent 5:31pm)  
Bring your sketchbook later? I want you to draw me

 

(sent 5:36pm)  
 _Jeez Buck, you found the one thing artists hate to hear the most_

(sent 5:37pm)  
What? Draw me?

 

(sent 5:39pm)  
 _It’s that or good ol’ “is that anime?”_

 

(sent 5:40pm)  
Well that was obviously my next question, guess I’ll just skip to can you draw me anime style?

 

(sent 5:42pm)  
 _Shut up. Nah, you’re actually the only person I felt like drawing today._

 

(sent 5:43pm)  
You remember my face enough to draw it? I’ve already charmed you so, you can’t resist my good looks and shining personality

 

(sent 5:45pm)  
 _Oh yes my darling, from the moment you questioned my ability to talk to women and insinuated that I was a bad artist, I knew you were the one._

 

(sent 5:46pm)  
Oh you shut it, ya punk. I wasn’t that bad

 

(sent 5:48pm)  
 _That bad. You’re selling it hard Bucky._

 

(sent 5:48pm)

It’s unfair that you’re judging Captain Chivalry

 

(sent 5:49pm)  
 _I told you chivalry wasn’t really that accurate._

 

(sent 5:52pm)  
How about Captain America, much better for a patriotic boy from Brooklyn like you?

 

(sent 5:54pm)  
 _More accurate at least. I’m going to try to catch up on some sleep, it’s warm enough today, see you later._

 

(sent 5:55pm)  
See ya soon Steve

(sent 10:03pm)  
Gah it’s hot as balls out here, I thought it was supposed to cool down in the evening. Maybe walking was a bad idea

 

(sent 10:16pm)  
 _You didn’t see the trains, you’re better off._

 

(sent 10:29pm)  
Can I come in?

 

(sent 10:32pm)  
 _What?_

 

(sent 10:32pm)  
Look up

 

* * *

 

 

When Steve Rogers looked up from his sketchbook, he could barely contain exaggerated eye roll and grin he felt coming on. Through the endless glass was the same pouty-lipped man, giving a shy wave and a wicked smile. The thin artist flushed and waved the other in, shutting his notebook and standing up from his position hunched by the register, filling the empty diner with his nervous humming. The door swung open, accompanied by the tinny sound of a bell. The man arriving pulled off a black newsboy hat that could have belonged to his great grandfather, and unabashedly swiped a rough hand through his wavy chestnut locks.

“Hey,” the lax, smooth voice called out, seeming to resonate somewhere deep in the man’s chest.

“Hey,” Steve returned, swinging around from behind the bar to greet the other.

“So I uh-” the dark haired dock-worker stuttered on a small laugh, “I’m Bucky.” Steve accepted the other’s pro-offered hand and shook with a light squeeze

“I’m Steve.” They met eyes and released hands after holding on a moment too  
long. Steve was slightly taller than Bucky, but certainly much thinner, having a emaciated look about him that didn’t add to the dark circles under his optimistic blue eyes. Bucky met the lengthy gaze with liquid, stormy grey eyes, hooded with strangely dark lashes. The broader of the two let his tongue flash across shell pink lips and gestured to the bar,

“Have a seat?”

“I should be asking you,” Steve remarked, turning to slip behind the bar nonetheless. Two porcelain mugs were retrieved and filled with coffee so dark it looked like it was mostly grounds, but proved to just be a cheap brand meant for espresso.

 

The two men slowly drank their own mugs of bitter liquid, and apart from Steve’s occasional hacking cough, sat in total silence until Steve turned to refill his cup,

“Don’t we have to pay for this? I mean fill ‘er up, but you’re gonna be getting a new dish boy if you expect me to pay for all 3 zillion cups we’re gonna go through on your shift.” Steve looked at Bucky with quirked eyebrows,

“You’re staying? Thanks, but you really don’t have to.”

“When I was waiting in here yesterday, the waitress Maria told me about you. You go home by yourself every night, work like all your aspirations rest in this job, and in winter you stay here all night in this ridiculously big military coat and draw and pretend you’re not asleep.” The tall blonde shrugged, lips turned in agreement,

 “Yeah, it’s just like that.”

“Jeez, you’re dumb.”

“Pardon?”

“You can’t just live like that, you’ll lose this great burning sense of honor and passion for the things you do.” The blonde snorted, which prompted a short coughing fit that died down when Bucky reached across the bar to thump Steve on the back.

“And- and what do you suggest I do to avoid that?”

“I suggest,” Bucky announced, pausing to sip his coffee, “that you find yourself a roommate, or a dog, or a girlfriend, or whatever you’re into. You, Captain America, need backup. Because you are a stubborn artist thinks he can save everyone but himself.” Steve raised his eyebrows,

“The morning cook, Clint, has a dog they’re really not that great.”

“Pfft says you. Okay then, a roommate. What’s your criteria there, ‘cause you would get along great with my friend Sam Wilson.”

“Go on.” A wide grin cracked Bucky’s pouting lips,

“He works down at the VA, he’s a veteran, but definitely the coolest guy I know. He’s got a great sense of humor, and- ah dang, never mind.”

“What? He sounded like a great roommate!” Steve protested. The dark haired  
man shook his head in mock disappointment

“Nope, I’m afraid he’s too good, and you would never want to hang out with me again.” The artist broke out laughing hard enough to wrack his lean body, shaking as the laughter became a hoarse cough

“Aw geez, Buck. Well I guess roommate is out then.”

“So girlfriend.”

“Or boyfriend,” the blonde supplied absently, moving to lean his back against the second, cold coffee machine.

“Or boyfriend,” Bucky agreed, tapping a finger against his lips in thought, glancing around the diner quickly, “man, you were right, this place is dead at night.” Steve shrugged and sipped his coffee,

“Give it an hour, a couple bars in the area close and we get a steady crowd.” The two men lounged in silence for several more minutes before Steve reached over to the bar to retrieve his sketchbook. “Well, since you’re not really getting anywhere with finding a caretaker for me, stay where you’re at,” he said, jumping slightly to sit on the bar next to Bucky’s chair. The brunette shifted uncomfortably, but eventually settled on propping his face up on one hand, slouched over the bar, gaze lingering just above Steve’s bent head.

 

Bucky asked more questions than Steve was fully prepared for, and Steve was more willing to answer than Bucky expected.  
“So you’re an art major?”

“Yep, contemporary art and all.”

“Cool.”

“What do you do with your spare time?”

“Haven’t really had free time in a while, when I was a kid I wanted to be a spy.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“I definitely thought you’d be the pulp novelist type.”

“Are you kidding?

“Bucky, you wear a vintage military peacoat and your favourite restaurant is a crappy diner built in the forties. You’re practically a scrappy crime writer in a noir film already.”

“Huh, point. Can I see yet?”

“No, sit still.”

“Yes Mom.”

“Oh, shut up, this is harder than you think.”

“I don’t doubt that, but you’re a great artist, don’t be afraid to show me.”

“I’m not afr- there are customers here now, be quiet.” Steve leapt down from the counter, chest heaving and wheezing lightly as he strolled over to the intoxicated patrons that had slumped into a booth close to the door. The amateur model watched the blonde waiter over his shoulder before turning to steal a glance at the other’s grand, pencil masterpiece. Bucky’s grey eyes went soft as he studied the portrait; the sketch took up the entire page, highlighting the gentle curves of his hair and sharp arch of his broad back, even the texture of his olive, military style coat was caught in the heavy shading. When he heard Steve’s shoes squeak on the linoleum floor, Bucky nearly flung the sketchbook down the bar, he opted to shuffle his feet nervously and slurp his cup of coffee.

“No one really seems to grasp the concept that the kitchen closes at ten,” the artist grumbled, hastily filling two coffee cups with the dark brew.

“Ah well,” he responded quietly as Steve quickly turned to serve the restaurants other occupants. When the thin blonde was just out of the other man’s peripheral vision, Bucky looked back at the graphite portrait and a soft smile crept across his face.


	5. Natasha Finds Russian Mobs A Little Too Familiar, And Steve Asks Bucky About The Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Hawkeye comics by Matt Fraction, Clint has a lot of trouble with an eastern-European mob that owns his apartment building. I thought that this would be a good tie in for Natasha's past, and Bucky's future (a la CA:TWS). The Russian phrase 'Tasha uses roughly translates to "thieves".
> 
> Steve and Bucky discussing their past hopes, fears, and family will be pretty important to the way their relationship progresses, so this isn't the last time they'll touch on it.
> 
> As always, special thanks to my beta, the goddess of plot point discussion and checking my sporadic use of commas, missfrost.

**June 24**

(sent 4:48am)  
 _I forgot to thank you for staying all the way through my shift the other night, it was boring without you today._

 

(sent 5:03am)  
Aw thanks Steve, it made me feel okay about waking up all worn out

 

(sent 7:26am)  
 _I can’t even tell you what I’m thinking right now._

 

(sent 12:15pm)  
Oooh Steve, this is new side of you, I like. If innuendo is the kind of humor you plan on using when we hang out, well let’s just say... I’ll be coming again.

 

(sent 3:22pm)  
 _Oh my gosh Bucky, I think I scared a woman on the train I laughed so hard. You’re welcome to stop by whenever you want, that is if you haven’t made any progress with finding me a roommate, pet, or date._

(sent 5:02pm)  
I am so making progress

 

* * *

 

 

(sent 5:09pm)  
 _Hey Nat, can I get some advice?_

 

(sent 5:14pm)  
 **Busy**

 

(sent 5:16pm)  
 _Okay, I’m going to stop by yours before work, I want to catch up on Dog Cops_

\-------------------------

Right hook, scan the warehouse, remember why you still talk to Clint Barton. One thug on the right, one on the second floor, one idiot tied to a chair. Natasha Romanov had forgotten that this was how her days actually went; do the right thing, fight hard, let the past dig itself up.

“Hey lady bro, no trouble if you leave other bro, ‘kay?”

“Shut up, I’m not leaving without him.”

Take up a stance, scissor kick to the throat, twist and land. An enemy dispatched, a path cleared, and Clint was not helping his situation.

The scrappy blonde was struggling against his bonds, shouting all the usual gruff snark at his captors. A few remaining thugs, part of the mob that had taken Clint from outside his building, were shouting back in broken English, garbled heavily by thick Russian accents. One tracksuit-clad wall of a man broke apart from his associates, and rushed headlong at Natasha, who was cautiously sprinting towards her own partner. They met in a clash of fists and tensed limbs, the sprightly redheaded woman landing powerful shots to the man’s knees, earning square fingernails digging into her arm with an iron grip.

She didn’t scream, she didn’t flail; she planted one fist in her foe’s face with one fluid turn. In that moment, Natasha Romanov decided she really didn’t have time for this shit, and Clint Barton was lucky she was in his debt. The last two mobsters had engaged the stubborn, part-time vigilante in low conversation. Natasha limped over silently, clutching her newly bleeding arm and signaling the trapped blonde that kicking out his legs would be a good choice at the moment.

Ropes were snapped, one perfectly timed jump landed, and two long legs clad in dark skinny jeans twisted around the neck of a balding, hand-for-hire. The woman flexed the bulky muscle that ran along the inside of her femur, effectively suffocating the man whose shoulders she sat upon, struggling to stay upright against the force of his blind staggering. The sound of a body dropping shortly echoed through the darkened warehouse, and the noise was quickly followed by the sharp clack of Natasha’s feet returning to the ground. These sounds were muffled by Clint clumsily thrashing, rolling parallel to the ground, still attached to a chair. Panting heavily, the lean woman called out,

“You look ridiculous, Clint.” A rough laugh was barked out, mostly silenced by the mouthful of dirt and blood the man had gathered. A second later, one of his kicks landed, and a deep howl burst from the mouth of one unfortunate henchman. The redheaded woman sauntered over to free her partner, stepping lightly over heaving bodies, knife drawn from the fold of her hoodie. “That was incredibly stupid of you to take on a mob by yourself.”

“I can do it all by myself, Nat; no one asked you.”

“Wow, Barton, I just saved your life. Do you want to reconsider that statement, or should I just leave this knife over there?” The square shouldered man struggled upwards for another few seconds before letting his body drop,

“You got me, sorry ‘Tasha.” She nodded in assent, kneeling beside the stubborn blonde to saw away at the ropes binding him to the chair.

“Now you want to tell me why an eastern-European crime-network has you on it’s radar?”

“‘Tasha, please-”

“No, Clint. You’re not going to hang around and wallow in your secrets and man-pain while I- or god forbid, Steve- get drawn into whatever fight you started.” The ropes snapped free and the lean fighter stood suddenly, withdrawing an off-brand, pay-as-you-go phone from her jacket pocket. “Okay, we’re going to take a train from wherever the hell we are, to a pizza place, then we’re going to my apartment and you’re going to tell me all about how you got involved with these… Братский Круг,” she said coolly, the last words rolling out of her mouth distastefully.

“Fine…”

 

* * *

 

 

(sent 7:22pm)  
 **On our way, picking up pizza. You like sausage and pineapple, right?**

(sent 7:23pm)  
 **Us adults are not eating your sweet sausage fruit pizza steve pick real toppings**

(sent 7:25pm)  
 **Sorry, that was Clint. He’s being an ass because I helped him. We’ll get whatever pizza you want, I like pineapple too, it bites back.**

(sent 7:31pm)  
 _Thanks Nat, whatever you want is fine. Are you guys okay?_

 

(sent 7:32pm)  
 **I think we’ll be alright.**

 

* * *

 

 

(sent 8:13pm)  
 _Hey Buck, can I ask you something?_

 

(sent 8:15pm)  
Hate to break it to ya Steve but I think you just did

 

(sent 8:16pm)  
 _Something else, you jerk. Where do you see yourself five years from now?_

 

(sent 8:19pm)  
Wow, I guess same place I am now. Maybe I’ll enlist or something if I don’t meet the right person.

 

(sent 8:21pm)  
 _You’d enlist?_

(sent 8:22pm)  
 _That’s really noble, that was my dream when I was a kid, but they don’t really need asthmatics._

 

(sent 8:23pm)  
You wanted to join up? And yeah, no one around here would really miss me, my job is kind of a dead end

 

(sent 8:25pm)  
 _I just want to do the right thing. I’m sure people would miss you, you have a family, right?_

(sent 8:27pm)  
Dead. You?

 

(sent 8:30pm)  
 _Hey fellow orphan._

(sent 8:31pm)  
Sorry to hear it Steve. Can we talk about something else?

 

(sent 8:33pm)  
 _Oh, sure, sorry James._

 

(sent 8:34pm)  
Don’t call me James, you sound like my mother.

(sent 8:34pm)  
What did you even text for anyway?

 

(sent 8:38pm)  
 _I’m real sorry Bucky, I didn’t mean to bring something like that up._

(sent 8:42pm)  
 _I was just listening to Clint and Nat argue outside and I wondered where we’re all going, and how we'll be able to handle change._

(sent 8:48pm)  
It's fine Steve. I don’t talk about it, that’s just the way it is. Forget about it, I’m not mad

 

(sent 8:53pm)  
 _Want to stop by for coffee later? Promise I won’t bring up anything you don’t want to talk about._

 

(sent 8:57pm)

You're too nice ya punk, I'll see you around


	6. In Which Bucky Is Upset And Steve Makes Some Suggestions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there hasn't been an update in a while, I promise I haven't abandoned this story! I found an interesting piece about the neighbourhood Steve (canonically) lived in back in the 40s, that can be found here: http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/213805.html
> 
> Also, in this 'verse, Clint and 'Tasha live in Brooklyn too (since it wouldn't make much sense for them to be working at Shield if they could afford to live in Manhattan or something). I'm putting Natasha in Brighton Beach, because of the high population of Russian-speaking residents and eastern-European immigrants, which would work in conjunction with her backstory. In my mind, she moved there in the late 80s after her family had some trouble in Russia, and fell in with the mob for whatever reason (poverty, cultural similarities, ect.) I think Clint would live nearby, somewhere in the vicinity of Ocean Parkway and Natasha's neighbourhood.
> 
> As always, thank you to my beta, the lovely missfrost

**June 25**

(sent 12:26am)  
 _It’s boring here without you and it would be weird if I drew customers._

(sent 12:31am)  
Sorry steve drowning my fears lesewhere tonight

 

(sent 12:34am)  
 _You’re drinking again._

 

(sent 12:35am)  
So sue me

 

(sent 12:36am)  
 _You want to talk about it?_

 

(sent 12:39am)  
Not now its a solo thing

 

(sent 12:40am)  
 _Is this because of what I said earlier?_

 

(sent 12:42am)  
No shut up steve you just reminded me of a thing my ma made mr promsie before she died

 

(sent 12:43am)  
 _Sure you don’t want to talk about it? Because it sure sounds like you do._

(sent 12:48am)  
Jsut leave me alone steve

 

(sent 12:50am)  
 _Okay Buck._

 

**June 26**

2:12am incoming call from: 929 --- ----

“Hello?”

“Hey, Steve!” a loud, tenor voice tinged with melancholy called down the line. “It’s Bucky! I, uh, just wan’ed to say sorry for snappin’ at’cha earlier or texting rudely or whatever. Point is-” there was an explosion of snickering laughter, partially drowned out by a loud baseline and excited chatter. Bucky’s voice returned, muted laughter on his tongue, “point is,” he began again “I’m sorry… Are we still good?”

 

On the other end of the call, Steve was leaning over the bar of the Shield diner, a little smile creeping over his face.

“Yeah Buck, we’re good.”

“Okay good, oh man, here’s Sam! Sam! Get over here!” The artist listened to Bucky and another man talk over the sounds of whatever club or bar they were in. “Hey man, this is Steve, I told ya’bout Steve, right?”

“Yeah,” the other man’s rich vibrato responded, “that artist kid you’re in l-”

“Okay, thanks Sam.”

“Whatever, Barnes. We should probably fly, some of us have work tomorrow.” Steve listened to the sounds of shuffling and the changing pitches of the voices around Bucky and his friend. When the softer sounds of the nights and wind came through the phone, Sam’s lighthearted, friendly voice returned to the line. “Hey Steve, can I call you Steve?” The blonde’s breath hitched a moment,

“Yeah, definitely. What’s the deal?”

“Take it easy, man. I just wanted to say hey. Your boy is puking up his guts right now, he asked me to hold the phone.” The artist recoiled a bit, standing up from where he was leaning,

“Is he going to be okay?” Sam’s soft laughter echoed down the line,

“Yeah, he’ll be fine. Don’t count on him wanting to talk to you tomorrow though.” They shared a mutual chuckle at their friend’s expense.

“Is he usually like this?” Steve asked, suddenly. Sam sighed,

“Drunk? No. It’s an occasional thing. Barnes isn’t really good about dealing with tough things. He’d rather outgun the hard stuff, but when he doesn’t have that power, he takes it out on himself, you know?” The blonde made an affirmative noise down the line, smile in his voice,

“You a psychologist?” The other man laughed good-naturedly,

“Sort of. I was a medic in Afghanistan, you kind of pick up the how and why of everyone’s battle.” A little moment of understanding passed between the two men, then Sam responded, “Well, Bucky’s on his way back. Good talking to you, man.”

“You too Sam, I’m sure we’ll be hearing more from each other.”

“Alright, goodnight Steve.”

“Goodnight.”

 

 

(sent 10:22am)  
 **Hey, sorry Clint and I fought in front of you last night.**

 

(sent 10:39am)  
 _It’s fine Nat. You guys made up, didn’t you?_

 

(sent 10:42am)  
 **An agreement was reached. We’re going for piroshki tonight.**

 

(sent 10:45am)  
 _Good for you. Do you have today off?_

 

(sent 10:46am)  
 **Only you could find a way to make that sound sincere. Yes. When are you off?**

 

(sent 10:48am)  
 _I’ll probably take a day after I finish summer session. Why?_

(sent 10:49am)  
 **Take care of yourself, Steve. How you manage to get so sick during the summer is a mystery to me.**

 

(sent 10:52am)  
 _It’s nothing Nat, I just need some rest._

 

(sent 10:53am)  
 **I’m sure.**

 

Brooklyn was something horrible. Even on a cool summer evening with the lights of cheap housing shining like stars, it was dark and grimy, oozing with poverty and dirt and desperation. Bucky told himself he would never understand why it was romanticized, yet all at once he knew exactly why it was romanticized. It was home. Born and raised, the scrappy brunette knew he would never forget the humid summers, the variety of strangers anyone could blend in with, the feeling of absolute vitality that came with the city. Feeling like a soldier on the march, the young man shoved rough hands in the pockets of his worn green jacket; he paced down the swiftly dimming streets with confidence, a practiced stride carried him towards the intersection of streets and alleyways ahead.

 

Someday, Bucky silently bargained with the universe, he would get the grand favor life surely owed him. He would get a better job, a nicer home, someone that needed him. A warmer coat, better meals, and who knows, maybe Steve would be there. Wouldn’t that really be the grand fantasy?

 

Ahead of Bucky, he could see the inviting fluorescent lights behind an infinite pane of glass. He had to be the most boring person in the world to want to spend his Saturday night at a crappy diner from seven decades ago, but here he was, grinning as the bell on the door rang him in. At the deserted counter ahead of him, a focused blonde who looked skin and bones was hunched over a sketchbook on the bar, distractedly plucking pencils from a dented metal tin. The thin artist’s piercing blue eyes flicked up to the approaching brunette with a gleam,

“Hey Bucky, coffee?” The two men exchanged warm smiles,

“You know me, punk. How are ya?” The blonde nodded at his sketchpad,

“Busy as ever. Is it okay if I put you in my portfolio?” Bucky tipped his chin forward, pouting lips soft and pink in the harsh light,

“Do you think I’ll fit? You probably should have gotten creative rights from my parents before you started passing me off as your own work.” Steve rolled his eyes spectacularly, pouring coffee with a flourish as he turned back to face the other man,

“Yeah, my mistake. I’ll have my agent get in touch first.” The sketchbook Steve had been working on was placed in front of the audacious brunette with a slight swivel.

 

Looking thoroughly proud of himself, the artist leaned back against the counter, steadying his swaying body in a way that didn’t quite convey the confidence he was putting forth. Bucky raised his eyebrows and shifted the scrap paper keeping the sketch from smudging, unsure of what Steve possibly could have captured in this sketch that he didn’t in his previous. The grainy paper handed to him in no way did justice to the masterpiece it somehow contained. Bucky would hardly have believed the depiction of himself wasn’t a photograph, if it weren’t for the particulates and soft shading that brought colour to the sketch. In a completely new piece, the plucky little artist had somehow captured his subject’s smirk; now all Bucky could do was gape. He marvelled at Steve’s depiction of the downward slant of his lips, turning up at the ends in a wicked smirk, eyes shadowed over by the hat he had worn last time. Even the colour of his green coat had transferred.

 

After a long moment of stunned silence, Bucky’s voice crackled back to life with a soft noise of incomprehension.

“Steve, you cannot display this or put it in your portfolio, or whatever. This is-” he trailed off into oblivion, now gesturing unhelpfully with one hand. The blonde tilted his head for a better view of the page,

“You don’t like it?” The live incarnate of the portrait huffed out a laugh, looking at Steve incredulously,

“Of course I like it, I want to keep it!” The artist chuckled quietly,

“No, Bucky, I pretty sure you don’t. Look, I can get ‘Tasha to sit for a portrait, I still have three weeks before end of semester-” Bucky leaned across the bar and reassuringly grabbed Steve’s shoulders,

“No Steve, what I’m saying is that I would like to buy all of your art. Ever.”

“Come on Buck, look at all the stray pencil marks. I used graphite that was too soft, and the contouring of your jaw looks funky.”

“Shut up Steve, just put it in your portfolio. Show me your other stuff.”

 

* * *

 

“Who’s that?”

“On the left? That’s my mother.”

“She’s a looker-”

“Weird, Buck.”

“I was just,” the brunette began, pausing pointedly to sip his coffee, “going to say I know where you get your looks from. That is, if she looks anything like that. Your self portraits aren’t even accurate.” Steve scowled and flipped the page of his sketchbook,

“It’s called artistic license, which you don’t get.” Bucky shrugged and leaned over to get a better look at the pages.

“What’s with all the skylines?”

“Sometimes I can’t sleep. When it’s too cold or I get really sick, I go up on the roof of my building before or after work, and I draw.”

“Okay, another reason to have a roommate, someone to keep you warm.” The emaciated artist looked at him thoughtfully,

“And how’s the search for a roommate going? I thought Sam was nice.” The brunette shook his head,

“I already told ya, if you spent that much time with Sam, you wouldn’t wanna be around me.”

“Well then, why don’t we rent together?” Steve suggested, lightly gesturing with his thin, artistic hands. Bucky gaped for a second, opening and closing his mouth, before responding,

“Why don’t we?”

 

“So, um, my shift ends in a little bit,” Steve remarked to the only other person in the Shield diner, gently clutching his heaving, bony side. Above his head, on a eggshell colored wall, a silver rimmed clock was ticking at fifteen minutes until four in the morning. The man sitting across the bar from Steve tilted his head up in comprehension, and sleepily drained his coffee mug,

“Yeah, it does.” The blonde shuffled his feet like he was trying to stay warm, even in the muggy heat of early morning in mid-June.

“Do you work today?” Bucky shook his head, pouty lips pursed in a soft, shell pink line. “Want to walk home together?” The brunette’s lips cracked into a gentle grin,

“You know it.”

 

Out in the humid dawn, the sun was just peeking over the distant horizon, joining the artificial lights, glowing from windows and shining down from buzzing lampposts. A tall, thin blonde was strolling down the street, talking animatedly with the broad, humoured man beside him, gesticulating with long, artistic fingers. Every so often, the pair would stop along the grimy sidewalk so the blonde could steady himself through a coughing fit, brought on by some strangely timed respiratory infection. After one particularly bad bout of coughing that had the blonde doubled over, his brunette companion rested a hand on his back,

“Hey, Steve, you still breathing?” The thinner of the two shivered through one last wheezing cough, allowing the other to rub comforting circles on his back, then drew himself up,

“Yeah, it’s just a little cold, I’ll be fine.” Bucky whistled,

“Whatever you say, take my jacket, you’re shaking.” The blonde nodded grudgingly and accepted the coat being thrown around his shoulders. “So where do you live?” the jacket’s owner prompted, falling back into a comfortable stride next to Steve.

“Brooklyn Heights, just a couple blocks west of here.” Bucky nodded,

“I live up by DUMBO, I’ll walk from your place then.”

“How long have you been living around here?” the artist asked in between sharp intakes of breath. The confident man at his side tipped his head to the side,

“My whole life, I live in the same building I grew up in. My parents still had a six month lease when they- well, died, ya know?” Steve inclined his head and Bucky continued with a touch of melancholy, “I just couldn’t leave, promised my ma I would take care of myself and settle down.” The brunette exhaled heavily into the swiftly brightening morning, “I don’t want to be the last person to let her down.” The frail blonde quietly reached for the other man’s rough, clenched hand, but thought better of it, and let his fingers curl away, slipping his hand into the pocket of the borrowed coat.

 

Sometime after the sun took watch, peering over the horizon, and the first wave of joggers and early risers took to the streets, the numb figures of Buck Barnes and Steve Rogers were stepping into the lobby of the latter’s apartment building. One rickety flight of stairs took them to a small, surprisingly cold flat. Steve awkwardly shrugged out of Bucky’s coat and handed it back to it’s owner, who lightly slung it across his shoulder as he observed the small room. Rough charcoal sketches and running watercolours plastered the walls around a small window, and ran to the other wall where a small easel sat, unfinished painting sitting on it. In the corner not four feet away from the canvas was a single mattress with a few worn blankets and patchwork pillows, lain out as neatly as possible. Along one wall a small sink and stove separated the still open front door from what Bucky guessed was a bathroom door. The apartment’s occupant was bouncing on his heels and throwing a sheet over the easel and surrounding moat of paints and sketching pencils. Light from the outdoors was seeping in the window, and the quietly enchanted visitor managed to pick out not only a few of Steve’s fellow employees, but his own face in a few placed on the wall of sketches, interspersed with skylines and the occasional cartoon.

Steve was flitting about the sparse apartment, harsh breathing filling the air.

“I, uh-,” the artist began, “guess you’ll want to get home.” Bucky suddenly seemed to remember himself and started towards the door,

“We’re definitely moving into my building together, you probably freeze during the winter.”

“Oh please, like you don’t.”

“Pool our resources, Stevie,” Bucky said affectionately, going for the door handle. The slight blonde grinned back at him, ignoring the pain in his sides in favour of calling back,

“I want to see your place before I go leaving this behind.” The brunette paused a moment in thought,

“Tomorrow. Come over after work. You can stay over if you want, my heater still works.” They shared soft grins and then Bucky was gone into the early morning.


	7. An Interlude In Which Plans Are Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a time skip back to the night Clint was captured by a mysterious mob that Natasha seems to have ties to, and some of the mystery starts to be cleared up.  
> Meanwhile, Bucky and Steve's lives seem to be intertwining in ways they hadn't expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, DUMBO is Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, and is used to talk about the area around and under the Manhattan Bridge which runs into Brooklyn.  
> Thank you thank you thank you missfrost, for continuing to be a spectacular beta and a brilliant friend. And special thanks to everyone who reviewed, you give me motivation and inspiration (keep an eye out for some of your suggestions in future chapters).
> 
> As always, Steve's texts are italic, Natasha's are bold, and Bucky's are plain font.

**Yesterday (June 25)**

“They’re buying out everyone in my building ‘Tasha! I can’t leave all these people out in the cold! Simone’s family, and Grills, and the funny girl with the dog, I liked her-”

“Is that your point? That the funny girl with the dog doesn’t have a place to keep her vintage record collection? You could have a hit on you right now!” The harsh clunking sounds of two pairs of feet hitting the wood of flimsy stairs practically shook the building they were attached to. The rage emanating off a young woman, to whom one of those pairs of feet belonged, was palpable in the air, and the man behind her was fuming with frustration (the fuming was entirely unrelated to the hot box of pizza he was carrying).

“You’re just gonna stand back and let them do this? I’ll just buy them off! Barney has money!” The woman brought her hands up to the roots of her flame-red hair,

“Your carnie brother, that’s who you’re going to. You don’t know these people, Clint, they don’t care about the money, it’s all for power!”

“Oh and I suppose you do? Of-fuckin’-course ya do, ‘Tasha, I forgot your big scary past-”

“My past is my own, don’t push it, Barton.” The man behind her made an exasperated noise and let his head loll back as they made their way around the bend in the stairwell.

 

“Look, ‘Tasha, I can do this myself!” She pivoted to look Clint in the eye and she gently pressed her palms to either side of his head, ignoring the moment when he flinched,

“You could. You definitely could. But these bastards took you from your own home, they know how to draw you out and watch you dance, they can take everything you love and turn you into someone else-” The solidly built blonde’s gaze softened,

“Why do you know this?” he asked in almost a whisper. Natasha’s jaw squared,

“You know what I do.” Clint’s brow furrowed. “Did,” Natasha corrected, still cradling his face with her hand. She searched his lined face and brushed her thumbs over the stubble on his chin, then turned and continued to bound up the stairs. “We can fix this, Clint. I promise your neighbours won’t have to leave.” The shorter man stared after her, stunned at first, then he started after her,

“So what’s the plan?” Natasha fumbled with her keys, then quietly,

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?

“I mean-” she said, her voice wavering on shouting, “that I gave up a life of fear and fighting years ago, and I’m trying to make amends. But you make this very hard.”  
The blonde went tight lipped and managed to bark out,

“Why are you helping me then? You know I can do it myself!” She swung around, red waves quivering around her head, muscles tense and visible underneath her thin black hoodie,

“Because I owe a debt, because I care about you, because these people destroyed my childhood- pick a reason.” A moment of silence passed between them, Clint giving Natasha a steely look. Then she cleared her throat, composure returned, “Let’s go for piroshki tomorrow. We can discuss plans. You didn’t happen to hear why they’re buying out your building and evicting everyone?” The blonde shook his head and handed her the pizza box,

“I’m going home, I forgot to feed the dog.” Natasha followed him with her eyes, watching his tense, dejected figure slouch out the door. She let a sigh fall from her as her back hit the door to her flat, and she stared at the rickety stairway for a long moment before turning to let herself in.

 

**June 26**

(sent 9:07pm)  
 **If you come over later, lock up when you leave, I’m going over to Clint’s after we eat.**

 

(sent 9:13pm)  
 _Thanks, Nat, but I’m going to work early today. I think I upset Bucky and I’m hoping he shows up._

 

(sent 9:16pm)  
 **When will I be receiving the wedding invitation?**

(sent 9:19pm)  
 **It’s a joke, Steve. The way you talk about him is sweet. You care a lot.**

 

(sent 9:22pm)  
 _Thanks. You’re a real joy, Nat, have fun on your date._

(sent 9:23pm)  
 _That was definitely a joke._

 

(sent 9:24pm)  
 **Yeah, it had better be, Rogers. I hope your friend shows up, goodnight.**

 

(sent 9:24pm)  
 _Goodnight._

 

**June 27 (sometime after Bucky went home)**

(sent 10:26am)  
 _Hey Nat, could I get that advice?_

 

(sent 10:32am)  
 **Sure. Shouldn’t you be sleeping in? I know you don’t have class on Sunday.**

 

(sent 10:33am)  
 _Couldn’t sleep. Bucky did come by Shield last night, and he walked me home this morning._

(sent 10:35am)  
 _I think we agreed to move in together._

 

(sent 10:35am)  
 **You have needed a roommate, it’s been a year and a half since your mom passed.**

 

(sent 10:37am)  
 _That doesn’t mean I should take advantage of his friendship! Besides, I’m making my own way._

 

(sent 10:38am)  
 **When was the last time you ate? And not at my house.**

 

(sent 10:40am)  
 _Okay, point. But how will a roommate fix that?_

 

(sent 10:42am)  
 **You’ll save on rent.**

(sent 10:43am)  
 **The breakfast crowd just picked up again, talk to you later Steve.**

 

* * *

 

 

(sent 4:23pm)  
 _Where did you say your house was again?_

 

(sent 4:24pm)  
Can you see the bridge?

 

(sent 4:26pm)  
 _Yeah, I think I'm on Water Street._

 

(sent 4:27pm)  
And now you're standing on the corner looking confused

 

(sent 4:29pm)  
 _Where are you, jerk?_

 

(sent 4:30pm)  
I’m running down to help you, we should just get you a compass

 

(sent 4:31pm)  
 _Oh, hi._

 

Steve tugged his worn, canvas messenger bag higher on his shoulder before returning the wave directed at him from across the street. Waving back was Bucky, now taking long strides across the street to meet the thin artist. He was dressed as casually as Steve had ever seen him, in sweatpants and a graphic t-shirt meant to look like stylised propaganda from seventy years ago. He was now sans jacket, neither green wool nor the heavy blue number that Steve had affectionately dubbed ‘the button jacket’, for the multitude of navy coloured buttons holding the panels in place. Still waving vigorously, Bucky seemed entirely in his element, mussed hair from sleeping late after leaving Steve’s. He dropped his arm when he crossed onto the sidewalk, tilted smirk lighting his face,

“Hey.” Steve huffed out a weak little laugh and tipped his head towards the dirty ground,

“Is your apartment upstairs” Quirked lips turning serious, Bucky moved protectively towards Steve, directing him over to a low-rise brick building across the street,

“Still got that chest thing, huh? Do you want a- I dunno- water? I think I have some instant coffee; I definitely owe ya that.” Steve smiled softly with a little defiance in his expression,

“I’m fine Buck.”

“Sure you are. It’s second floor, just there.”

 

Bucky’s soft chatter brought them through a kelly green door, whose peeling paint littered the pavement and thinly carpeted corridor that led to several rooms and split into a staircase. The warm, muggy air followed them in, making Steve’s blue hoodie hang heavy on his tall frame and Bucky’s chestnut waves curl softly on his forehead.  
“I’ve lived here a long time so it’s- yeah, lived in. I did try to clean up, but it’s not a real show anyway.” He slid a key in the lock and pushed the door open, his hand sweeping away more green paint that was evidently a favourite in the building.

“Well,” Bucky said, with a grand sweep of his arm, “Whaddaya think?” His muscled arm gestured to a small flat, filled with daylight streaming through a small window above an eggshell coloured stove. The pane was cloaked in thin, moth-eaten curtains that matched a matted rug woven with patterns similar to the paintings on fine china, all done up in royal blue and cream. Just beside the kitchen, a wall marked out a small bedroom and adjoining bathroom, obviously occupied by Bucky if the unmade bed, stack of secondhand novels, and chair piled with folded clothes was anything to go off of. Another door just beside it, closed to the world, presumably hid another bedroom. The small kitchen was cut on the other side by a wall that ran straight back to the door, void of any decoration. On the blue and white rug that spanned from the apartment’s owner to the stove, a little card table sat between two folding chairs, holding a burden of day old newspapers and a chipped coffee mug. Bucky had inched himself further inside, and in a half bow, kept his arm extended as he pulled off a pair of work boots. Steve heard his voice echo pleasantly along the walls when he responded,

“I like it.”

 

“My mom worked in the ER, and I guess it was the long hours that really got her in the end. I was in school and I worked mornings.”

“Is that when you met the rude dame- er Natasha?” Steve nodded,

“And Clint. They were nice about the whole thing, made sure I got the late shift so I could still go to school. I really owe them.”

“Guess I’d better be nicer then, huh?” Bucky asked. He watched Steve shift so that his sharp chin rested in one palm, his body slanted forward over the card table, other hand cupping a mostly cold mug of coffee. Steve was looking at Bucky through thick lashes, bonelessly stretched across the table, arms extending off the edge and away from his own empty cup. Then Bucky asked softly, “Did you at least have someone at the funeral?” There was a long silence,

“Yeah. People from Shield and the hospital. They were nice about it, but I really wasn’t looking for comfort at the time. What- um do you mind saying?- what happened to your parents? You know, nevermind, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no,” Bucky interrupted, swallowing heavily. “Car crash. Few months ago. I doubt the paper ran anything about it, I stopped checking. Left me some money, this place, and a hell of a lot of expectations”

“I’m sorry.” The apology was waved off,

“It’s not your fault.” Bucky met Steve’s gaze with a lazy, half-grin, “Well, am I an acceptable roommate? Ya know, when I’m not telling my sap story.” Steve’s clever face twisted in mock judgement,

“You’re alright, I guess.” They filled the air with breathy laughter and Bucky choked out,

“Yeah, and you’re a real punk.”

“Fair enough. I think it makes more sense to move in here if you’re still open to it.”

“I thought you’d never ask, captain chiv- sorry- captain america. Well now you need a costume or something, jeez. I’ll come by and help you move your stuff when I have some free time, if you want.” The blonde nodded and moved again to trace an invisible pattern into the small table,

“Think tomorrow afternoon would be too soon?”

“Well, a little, but it’s not a problem. Why? Can’t get enough of this?” Bucky made a gaudy gesture towards himself and set his lips in their usual pout. The sound of Steve’s laughter was loud and made him bury his face in his hands as it died down to a wheeze deep in his chest.

“No,” he said finally, “your house is warm. But I need to go now anyway, so I guess it doesn’t really change anything.” Bucky crushed his own face into his shoulder, hiding a grin as he nuzzled into the light grey fabric of his t-shirt.

“Okay, tomorrow it is.” He rose and plucked a coat from the rack beside his doorway, tossing the navy blue jacket at Steve, “See ya ‘round, punk.” In mock salute, Steve swung an angled hand away from his brow,

“Okay Bucky, whatever you say.”


End file.
